AnalogMojo

i feel so old when i remember. all of a sudden my bones are reminded that they are clay formed from the arid desert of western civilization. my blood trickles through the arteries choked by so much sorrow, so many tears, and so much left unspoken. i couldn’t speak when i needed to, no one had taught me how. so i grew, older and older, needing things that i never knew. like affection, attention, care, all the things that make it worth it to be here. but along with being made old, and strong, i made promises to myself, named universe, that i would stay here and so i did, and do. even when i don’t want to. i promised, i remind myself, remembering that i am not alone in my pain, although i am not caring. i know everyone experiences it, but i am not them and so i must take care of my own. i was never taught that anyone would help me do this anyway, so i don’t know how to let them when they try. they may know pain,  but do they know my promises? i will hold the heads of crushed bodies until i watch the light leave them, i will not run. i will not rip apart what has been created for me because of my selfish heart, or lack thereof, i will persist in my imperfection.

ride! betsy ride!

over these hills

to where i can hide.

the obstacles won´t

make me fall, not when

i´ve got so many reasons

to stand tall: he raped me;

i´m alive. that tree,

almost, killed me;

guns in my face

i´ve survived;

no peace in this place

named home. so i roam

astride my trusty ride.

just in the nick of time,

always, she comes when

i need to run. away from: …

made to climb mountains,

built to traverse unstable

earth, and brush stomped,

or chewed to mush, not to

eat tin cans and rush.

i tell you billy, those

beards don´t grow

for no reason. only after

a season of struggle against

gravity, forces that pull

and push down on, against

the ignorant who treat these

kind as clowns, distractions

made only to amuse while

they refuse to peruse their own

reasons to live not like an animal

with guts of steel, so much more

than they can handle,

one that will make a bed,

and lay upon it with the stars

overhead. around it: no chickens,

no rats, no sweetness sucking bats,

only the distance between there

and here, this place for only escape,

goats, and their riders.

i had a moment- or ten-

last night when the words bit deep,

chewing the insides worn

thin by an acid suspicion.

amateur magician, your skin

is too thick for trickery

i want to: write until my head

explodes crying blood all over

the carcasses, my brain pouring

through my eyes and there´s nothing

more for the looky-lou´s to see.

whisper so soft they can´t hear me

talking to myself; they always think

it´s about them anyways.

ghost walk through the halls

so they don´t know my coming.

or staying. or going. always

a mystery, crying only icebergs´

melting songs, needing only

the air to dry off

it is night now and the lights have gone out. the candle wick sends flames to lick my forehead with their heat as i write these words, bent towards the light. i wish it were more romantic than it is; not that the scene lacks any sort of charm. the image i hold of myself in this moment in precious: native diamond hoodie lined in fur, teal blanket pants, no shoes but wrapped in scarf, all laid out upon the living room floor with a candle as my companion. a part of me wishes it were the result of a carefully planned evening replete with red wine, joined by maria and laughter. that this flame flicked atop an elegant stick designed to kaleidoscope the light, rather than running its wax down itself onto this flyer for a dramatic mexican musical whose debut came, and went, unnoticed. perhaps, even, that there were faces other than mine reflected back against the Bay waiting outside these bay windows, with cheekbones poised for holding all the love they are given. the truth is that i am alone; no wine, no weed and no company. and i am content. to not be in control of the light of the room; they are out. and so are all the other lights in the house, on the street and through the neighborhood, as far as i know, but not down in the city. the grid remains as uncaring of these heights as the heights tend to be of it. there is no moon for me tonight, and no stars, only the light of a candle and an image reflecting, and i remember. i am not afraid of the dark.

to move

i had to sit

hold on to my breath

so i could let the everything slip

out of the grasp of my hand

and into the reach of my heart

my mind´s sweet tooth

is jam thick, sticky

-sweet in its embraces

once i could breath water,

swish it through me-

wine tasting my environment.

once i could eat fire,

to digest and create

complex life structures.

once i could flow earth,

sifting the rubble inside

to birth foundations.

now i intake atmosphere,

swarming molecules

to negate exhaustion.